


Mourning Cloak

by mister_otter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Drama, F/M, Memorial Day, Redeemed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:59:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6911815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mister_otter/pseuds/mister_otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Postwar, Draco finds the finality of death hard to take. A bit serious, a bit sad...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Cloak

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Memorial Day a few years back, this story had the honor of being the first-ever Featured fic at the dramione archive Hawthorn and Vine.  
> Prompt from bunney, created for a long defunct fest that never got off the ground. She asked for unicorns, red roses, and rainbows, without irony. :)  
> Disclaimer--not mine, all property of JKR  
> Except the cemetery?

_Mourning Cloak_

Hogwarts Castle lay deceptively quiet, dreaming under a pale, dawn sky.

Remnants of night mist hid the scars from the battle two months earlier. In an hour, the work of rebuilding would begin again, the old keep echoing with sounds of construction, of friend calling to friend, and yes, with laughter.

As daylight inched its way over the mountaintops, a grey-cloaked figure appeared through the mist, striding up the hillside on lean, well-muscled legs. His gait was purposeful, his face solemn, as if he were on a mission—one he had undertaken only after long and careful consideration.

Draco Malfoy’s destination was the new cemetery set in a small meadow halfway up the mountain. Before the war, there had been nothing in this place in high summer but lush grass and abundant wildflowers. 

He’d come to the meadow once or twice with pretty witches, to celebrate the ending of a school term-- the girls with picnic baskets on their arms, he carrying only a bottle of wine, in the hope that the combination of warm sun and alcohol would allow him to see what lay beneath those bright, summer robes…

Draco banished that pleasant memory before it could go any farther. Today’s business was serious. He intended to speak to the dead--to invite them to haunt him, if they wished. 

They already did, anyway. He was simply here to make it official.

As Draco climbed the hillside, the mist parted and he saw for the first time the place where they lay buried. His cousin and her werewolf husband, his mentor-- the tragic, heroic Potions Master-- and his peers who had fallen in the battle.

Rising before him was a low wall of sparkling, black stone. A magical rainbow arched above its entrance in a spectrum of pure, transparent colors and everywhere, roses bloomed profusely. Red for martyrs’ blood, red for the love and remembrance of the grateful. 

It was truly an enchanted place. Draco could feel the hushed tranquility of it even before he entered. For the first time in many months, peace wafted over him. Even the mark on his arm, which frequently writhed and burned, lay quiet.

Inside the cemetery, he moved between the rows of graves, looking for the one that housed his cousin Nymphadora. It shouldn’t be hard to find; the graveyard was spacious, but not huge. There would be no additional burials here to swell the numbers of the hallowed war dead.

He passed the grave of Fred Weasley, mounded with summer flowers and scattered with memorial offerings purchased from the twins’ successful business—a skiving snack box and two pairs of extendable ears lay among the blooms. 

There never been any love lost between the Malfoys and the Weasleys, but still… Fred had been only twenty, just getting started with his life, his plans, his schemes and dreams, when he’d died…

_Bloody hell._ The finality of it made Draco’s gut twist, and he hurried on.

The monument to Nymphadora and Remus Lupin was far lovelier and far more unbearable than he had expected. At their twin burial site, a life-sized pair of white, marble unicorns stood face-to-face, heads lowered, slender horns crossed and pointing in opposite directions above the graves. 

Draco stood stunned and staring, alternately bathed in sweat and awash with chill. What was he doing here? It was all too damnably _real._ Perhaps, after all, he did not have the courage to do what he had come to do…

With a tremendous effort of will, he focused on Tonks’ grave, stepped forward, and addressed her.

“Cousin,” he began in a quiet, husky voice. “You needn’t worry over Teddy. Mother and I have seen to it that he’ll have all he ever needs. He’s safe with Aunt ‘Dromeda, of course, but we’ve provided for his financial future. We’ll see that Teddy doesn’t lack for anything…” 

Struck by the sudden realization that what Teddy lacked was the chance to grow up with two loving parents, Draco backed away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Appalled at the absoluteness of the silence, he turned on his heel and fled. 

Draco had one thought in mind— to find the grave of his mentor. Perhaps there, he could recapture the tranquility he’d sensed upon entering the cemetery. The dead lay at peace here; he was the one descending slowly into hell.

Rounding a particularly ornate tombstone in the incongruous shape of a giant sock, he almost crashed headlong into a figure standing in the middle of the path.

“I beg your pardon…”

Draco’s voyage into hell was complete. It was Hermione Granger, carrying a square box, of the size to contain a large cake.

“Malfoy!” she hissed. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Draco, who had thought to have the cemetery all to himself, could only stand and stare at the unexpected sight of Granger.

She faced him on the path, slender and erect as an avenging angel, her wild hair tamed into loose corkscrew curls. The morning sun brought out golden flecks in her brown eyes; her teeth were white and even behind parted pink lips. 

When had she grown to be so pretty? He remembered she was beautiful the night of the Yule Ball, but that had been a special glow, brought about by the candlelight and the joy of dressing up for a formal occasion. Hadn’t it been? 

Or had she been pretty forever after that, and he too stubborn to admit it except on a subconscious level? Draco had a vague recollection of his senses going into high alert when Granger was around, of waking from dreams, only half remembered, in which she’d played a prominent role…

“I _asked_ what you are doing here.” Hermione’s brow wrinkled in a small scowl of displeasure.

Draco reached into a mental pocket and retrieved a carefully controlled mask to drop over his features. It was so stealthily done that she never noticed the sleight-of-hand.

”I’ve come to pay my respects to the dead.” His face was now expressionless, but his voice held quiet dignity. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have a cousin and a cousin-by-marriage who are buried here, as well as Professor Snape--whom I loved.”

Hermione was brought up short, unable to make the quick retort of criticism that hovered at the edge of her lips. She could hardly give him a tongue lashing now, in this place, when he’d come to pay homage to the fallen who’d actually _belonged_ to him— his relatives, his mentor

Instead, she merely stared with icy hauteur and let her eyes speak on her behalf, transmitting a wealth of anger, distrust, and wordless sarcasm. Her gaze cast silent aspersions on the purity of his intent. 

It suddenly made him feel dirty, ashamed to be in the presence of those who had died to defeat a cause he had at one time championed. This girl... she was a War heroine. She could hold her head high; she had fought on the winning side. Good had triumphed and she had helped to make it so.

Hermione had every right to be here, but what right did he have except to be told to go straight to hell by all of them. Granger included.

Draco stood and stared at her as realization washed over him. There was no going back and changing things, no way to make restitution. 

Why had he come? He wasn’t sure, really. Except he had thought that possibly, if he visited the graves, he could speak to the dead, admit to them that he had been wrong. Then maybe they wouldn’t clamor so loudly in the night. 

His shoulders slumped in defeat. He turned to go before she could see his mask crumple, exposing the vulnerable man beneath. But he was too late. Hermione saw the look and, in a flash of intuition, knew that she’d been wrong in her hasty assumptions and he was changed.

Even defeated, there was such fierceness about him, like a wounded falcon struggling to accept that it can no longer fly with the power it once had, and he seemed oddly…lost.

In spite of herself, Hermione felt a surge of compassion.

“Malfoy,” she said gently. “Professor Snape’s grave is this way. Here, I’ll show you.”

She took his arm then and they walked together to a far corner of the cemetery, where the roses grew in greatest profusion.

Snape’s monument was a simple, elegant block of black, grey-veined marble, deeply scored with the dates of his birth and death. 

“We all owe him so much,” Hermione murmured. “Harry and I thought of having an inset carved with the symbols of a potions maker--but he was more than that. In the end, the stone speaks for itself—dignified, unyielding, dark and mysterious. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”

She realized that she was still holding Draco’s arm and gently released it, turning to leave him in privacy with his mentor.

“Stay,” he implored, putting out one hand as if to keep her near. “Yes, it’s perfect. He would have liked this very much, I think.” 

“I like to think he would have.” She hesitated. Once again, her intuition was strongly alive and she had the feeling that he needed to speak. Here, in this place, among those who were past hearing, he needed someone to hear him. 

Hermione took a deep breath. 

“Are…are you sorry, Malfoy? For the way it all turned out, in the end? I don’t mean regret for the defeat of Voldemort. I mean, are you sorry for… the deaths, the losses…”

“Of course, I’m bloody sorry!” he exclaimed. “I regretted my family’s involvement from the moment of Dumbledore’s death! But things had been set in motion—things beyond my control.” 

Floodgates suddenly opened, and a tide of words poured out. “Look, I’m not making excuses. To throw our lot in with a madman was a stupid, stupid thing to do. But I admired my father, for his own sake. I wanted to be just like him. It was only later, after that night on the Tower…When Severus took me away, he explained some things to me.” 

Draco’s voice dropped so low that Hermione had to lean closer to hear him. “It was as though I’d always been blinded, in thrall to a spell, of sorts. Severus pointed out the blinders on my eyes--but I was the only one who could raise my hands, work my fingers, and take them off.”

“Did you know Professor Snape was working for the Order?”

”No. He couldn’t very well tell me, could he? What if I’d decided to flop right back into the Dark? He couldn’t trust me with that kind of knowledge.”

“I suppose it would have been too dangerous. But he pointed you in the right direction, to save yourself?”

“Yes, I began to get free. But not in time!” Draco shook his head, hands clenched into fists. “I might’ve saved others, at Hogwarts! People our age _died._ They should have had a future. But they didn’t. And I might’ve helped them. But I didn’t. It was only _after_ that the whole weight of it came crashing, and I ripped the blinders away. The light was so bright…I’ve been stumbling around dazed by it ever since.”

In spite of herself, Hermione was touched. She sank down onto the stone wall, her box balanced carefully on her lap, and studied Draco. He stood with his head lowered and his shoulders stooped, the posture of an utter penitent, and she knew with sudden, absolute certainty that he spoke truth. He wanted forgiveness. The dead could not give it. It would be up to her to do it for them, for him. The way seemed suddenly very clear.

“Malfoy—Draco. Would you help me?” she asked softly.

“With…?”

“With what’s in the box,” Hermione replied, a small mischievous sparkle in her eyes in spite of the gravity of their discussion. “I have _Nymphalis antiopa._ ”

Draco merely stared. He longed to make a cheeky remark on what sounded like an intriguing sexual condition, but given their surroundings, it would have been highly inappropriate. Instead, he waited quietly, confident that Granger would explain herself.

She did. “ _Nymphalis antiopa_ is known in Britain as the Camberwell Beauty, and in America as the Mourning Cloak. They’re butterflies.”

Draco continued to stare, the look on his face one of quiet puzzlement as to why Granger would be in the cemetery with a box of butterflies.

“Today,” she told him, her voice low-pitched and somber. “Is the two-month anniversary of the Battle for Hogwarts. The scars are still so fresh… It seemed appropriate somehow, in the midst of high summer, to remember the ones who died.”

“So--you plan to release butterflies, here, in the graveyard?” The thought startled Draco. 

He’d always viewed Granger as brainy and practical, not quietly sentimental. She seemed more the type to create an Arithmancy formula for re-zoning the burial plots, or to chair a graveyard beautification committee.

“Yes. There’s such symbolism, you see,” she replied, with the merest hint of a catch in her voice. “The butterflies show that we mourn the dead deeply…that their lives and deaths are a thing of beauty to those of us left to carry on.” 

For a moment, the two of them stood absorbed by the infinite silence around them. Then, “Will you help me?” Hermione repeated.

The irony of a former Deatheater helping a Muggle-born witch pay tribute to those fallen in the War was not lost on Draco. This seemed an important step and he nodded.

“Here, then.” Hermione thrust the box into his hands, slid from the wall, and set off down the path, once again her purposeful self. “I’d like to find a spot in the heart of the graveyard.”

Draco followed, carrying the box and thinking that the morning had become considerably brighter since he’d stumbled upon Granger, her golden-girl aura shining like a halo. It was nothing short of a miracle how she had managed to go from avenging angel to ministering one in less than an hour.

“Here--this should be perfect!” Hermione stopped near a small, tinkling fountain encircled by climbing roses, and knelt, ignoring the dampness of the grass.

Draco joined her, placing the box carefully on the ground between them. “What…what would you like me to do?” he asked.

Hermione studied him for a moment, and then took a deep breath. “I think the words have all been spoken, Draco,” she told him, gently touching his arm. “And I believe…the dead _know._ Let’s just open the lid, and release the butterflies.” 

Draco considered for a moment whether forgiveness could really be that simple. It seemed unlikely, but he was willing to give it a go.

“On the count of three, then,” he said. “One…two…”

_“Three!”_

Together, they flipped the lid from the box. There was a fluttering explosion of wings as the butterflies lifted effortlessly into the dawn air. Draco and Hermione knelt side by side on the dew-spangled grass and watched them fly free. 

_“Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams,” Hermione quoted softly. “Beauty awake from rest…In the hour when the birds awake in the brake and the stars are bright in the west…*_

“Thank you,” she whispered fiercely to the murmuring morning air. “We will _never_ forget.”

Instinct drew the butterflies to the flowers. In minutes, they were busily gathering nectar, as at home in the graveyard as the roses planted there to honor the dead. 

Moments later, Hermione pronounced the ceremony complete, and the two conspirators smiled at each other in satisfaction. 

“That was perfect!” Hermione closed the empty box. “And Malfoy…”--this said with a sly glance through her lashes-- “You really should consider employing smirk-free smiles more often—very flattering on you.”

Draco realized he _was,_ in fact, grinning like a right fool, but he didn’t care. The feeling of peace was too great. 

“What are your plans?” Hermione rose, tucking the box under her arm and brushing off her hands. “For the future, I mean.”

“Well…I’m here at Hogwarts because the portrait of Dumbledore sent for me. He’s requested that I become an assistant to Professor Sinistra, in the astronomy classroom.” Draco sounded still astonished and boyishly eager. “Astronomy’s always been something I really like. I’ve accepted the offer.” He shrugged. “We’ll see how it goes.”

Hermione smiled smugly. If Dumbledore’s portrait had sent for Malfoy, then her intuitive assessment of him had been correct. She _so_ enjoyed being right.

“I’ve no doubt it will go swimmingly. You were the only one in our year who could touch me, academically speaking. Except for Anthony Goldstein, of course.”

“Goldstein? Bloody wanker was a failure at runes.” Draco grinned. “What about your own plans, Granger?”

“I’m sitting a special session of Newts in a month,” she replied. “If all goes well, I’ll be at university in the autumn.” She glanced at her watch. “But right now, I’ve got to get down to the castle. I promised to meet Ron for breakfast and then it’s back to the restoration project.”

Draco quickly racked his brains for something to say that would hold Granger’s attention a bit longer. She was as brilliant and warm as the morning sun and he did not want her to leave. But he was at a loss as to how to make her stay.

It would be ill mannered to ask to see her later, while surrounded by those who would never again see anyone that mattered to them. He chose instead to retreat with quiet dignity.

“Thank you…for today,” he said simply. “I hope we’ll meet again, sometime.”

”Anything’s possible.” Hermione smiled and then moved away from him, walking quickly down the path that led toward Hogwarts. “Have a lovely life, Malfoy!” she called over her shoulder.

Yes, he could agree with that. Perhaps, after all, life would be far lovelier than he had had any right to expect. 

Spirits rising, Draco saluted the dead and turned to follow Hermione.

FIN

 

*from _Let Beauty Awake_ from _Songs of Travel_ by Robert Louis Stevenson, set to music by the composer Vaughan Williams


End file.
